


Walk with Me

by AslansCompass



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, post Nothing Personal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AslansCompass/pseuds/AslansCompass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long couple days.  From the Hub to Providence to a cheap motel outside LA, the team has kept running, because that's the only way they can stay alive.  But now what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathe In

Running on adrenaline for roughly twenty-four hours has its costs. Since the moment Koening's blood dripped onto the tablet, Skye's been primed for action. She's done this before, putting on a mask, telling people only what they want to hear, staying invisible. But those were all quick meetings, almost causal, fishing for encrypted information. She could be anyone she wanted--a spoiled socialite, a petty criminal, a drunken co-ed.  The Rising Tide didn't care who she was--they just wanted the information.

But this time, she was playing against a master.

His name should send shivers down her spine, but she doesn't have room for fear.  In the first minutes, she was all action. Penny on the door, message on the window, no emotion in her eyes.  In the cafe, it was rage. How could he?  Garrett, well, she hardly knew the man.  But Ward...

He loved her. He said that was real.

"Great taste, girl. Great taste," Skye pulls back the musty curtain.  Fitzsimmons are still sitting at one end of the pool, feet dangling in the water; Triplett walks up to the vending machine, reaches into his pockets, and walked away. 

Everyone's okay.  That's important. 

Everyone's safe. She'll settle for that. Safe.  Sure, the Bus is stolen, the US government AND Hydra are after them, and she unlocked the encrypted drive (even if she left a little present behind), but nobody else has been shot recently. Amazing, really, with everything that's been happening.  The Hub and Providence and Deathlok-

 Mike Peterson. He's still Mike, whatever's been done to him. It's not her fault, any more than Ward's betrayal or Fury's death is her fault, but she had been honest when she told Ward why she chose that cafe: that was where it all began. Mike was her first direct link to SHIELD. If she hadn't gotten involved--if she hadn't gained his trust--

> Mike would have exploded. Innocent people would have died.

The words sound so much like Coulson that she looks up, expecting to see him. Instead, Simmons stands by the door, wiping her feet dry with a grubby towel.  "Thought I'd turn in for the night."

"Pick a bed.  Probably lumpier than mashed potatoes, but at least there aren't bars on the windows."

"Doesn't matter." Simmons pulls a duffle bag from the closet. "Mind if I use the shower first?"

"Not like I have anything to change into. Ward didn't exactly give me time to pack."

"You can borrow some of mine. I only packed for an overnight trip, haven't exactly had time to do laundry, might not even fit you.." Simmons tosses a set of scrubs around the corner. 

"No, it's okay, really..." Skye picks them up.  No blood or tissue samples or weird sciency things on it, at least not that she can see.  Not as comfy as the oversized shirt and boxers still shoved under the covers back home, but she doesn't really care.

 The shower creaks ominously, dribbling sound followed by a loud "clunk" and a yelp from Simmons.

"You alright in there?"

"The head fell off. I think I can screw it back on for now, but honestly..." Her voice trails off.

Skye hears two more "clunks" and several bumps from the shower before Simmons comes around the corner, dressed in sweats, wet washcloth in hand. "Do we have any ice?"

"Don't think so."

"Great."  Simmons plops onto the bed. "Wake me when we figure out what to do next."  Without even bothering to climb under the covers, she closes her eyes.


	2. Breakfast

Skye rubs her eyes. 5:05 AM.  Light clings to the curtain edges, just enough for her to see a lump of blankets between the beds.  For a moment, she thinks Simmons has crawled in late from a night in the lab and slept on the floor because she didn't have the energy to climb into bed, but then Skye remembers: 1. They aren't on the Bus.  Ward has the Bus.  2. She is wearing Simmons' scrubs, not the oversized shirt and shorts she normally sleeps in.  

Skye shoves back the sheets.  Once she's up, she's up.  And there's nothing to do in this room anyway. She doesn't even have her laptop--which is back on the Bus with the encrypted harddrive. _Shit._  She has a feeling she'll be thinking that a lot in the next couple of days. It's not like she had anything particularly rare or valuable there--at least, not compared with Fitzsimmons' toys or Lola, but it was _hers_ , and she doesn't like people messing with her stuff.  She fishes the crumpled socks from the toes of her shoes and shoves them on, not bothering with the laces. She almost slams the door behind her. 

Then she pictures Deathlok wearing one of her sweaters.   

It shouldn't be funny, but she's had a very long day, one of the longest days since she joined this journey into ~~mystery~~ weird crap--she'd accepted the Norse gods, flying billionaire, and revived WWII supersoldier, but she didn't have to fight them.  Some sort of deranged coping mechanism,  she suspects, because ordinarily she would not even imagine a cyborg in one of her hipster/thrift shop sweaters,  sleeves halfway down the metal palm.

Her stomach growls. Breakfast, right.  Might as well see what's left in the vending machine.  She wasn't really that hungry last night, anyway--adrenaline does that to you, fills your chest so completely there's no room for anything but, possibly, the thought _I'm still alive._ But that was last night: this morning she's exhausted and sort of hollow--not the sort of hollow that needs food, but it doesn't stop her from trying.  

Skye walked around the pool to the vending machine, barely noticing that Fitz was already there, snack bag in hand. He glanced up for a moment. "You know, if we could find the program Hand used to override the Bus controls, maybe we could use it again. Homing coordinates might be locked to the Hub, which is swarming with federal agents, but still..."

"Whoa, whoa, not so early in the morning.  Actually, I was thinking about breakfast, but I kind of left all my money in my other purse."  Fitz still looks confused, so Skye nods at the bag in his hand.  "Mind if I share?"

"Don't tell Simmons."

"Chex Cookies&Cream--worried she'll lecture you about a healthy breakfast? No, it's got cereal, it totally counts." 

"Actually, you wouldn't believe some of the stuff we have for late nights at the lab." Now Fitz has to reassure her. "No, not tissue samples or anything.  Mintos, Winegums--her mum sends us packages all the time."  

"Sounds nice,"  Skye reaches into the Chex mix.   "Not a bad idea, though."

"What?"

"Hacking into the Bus.  I left them a little virus--even if your plan doesn't work, we've still got one up on them. But I guess we'll have to see what Coulson's got in mind."

"Yeah." Fitz leans against the wall.  "He'll have something clever." 


	3. Wars and Rumors of Wars

The courtyard gate creaks.  “Hey, whatcha doing up so early?”  Since Triplett has newspapers under one arm and a paper coffee mug in the other hand, he pulls out the wobbly chair with his foot.

Skye snags a copy of _The National Enquirer_ from the pile.  Taking up the bottom two thirds of the cover was a blurry image of the Avengers taking down one of the Chitauri with the yellow letters ‘THEY WERE IN LEAGUE : THE AVENGERS REPLACED BY ALIENS.’   Two smaller headlines proclaimed ‘NAZIS in the NSA’ and ‘FURY IS A DOOMBOT.’

Well, one out of three. If you change ‘NSA’ to ‘SHIELD’.   But it’s the _Enquirer,_ what can one expect?  Skye sets it on the table a little too vigorously; it slides off the glossy stack onto the cracked pavement. “So, what’s this about?”

“Information.  We may not have access to Shield’s files, but we need to know what the public is thinking. What they’re being told.” 

“Or not being told,” Fitz holds up a _New York Times_ with the headline ’Trillions of Taxpayer Dollars Destroyed—Disaster in the Potomac. ‘   “They don’t know any more than we do. “

“Not if we put it all together.  Pieces of a puzzle.” Skye picks up one article, than another, rearranging the various covers.  “There has to be some sort of pattern.”  

* * *

 

“Nice work.” 

Fitz nearly falls into the pool. “May? What are you doing back?”

“Business.”  She nods at Skye. “So, what have we got?”

“Rumors, lies, random speculation.  But a few useful things—May, can I borrow your phone? My laptop’s on the Bus.”

May hands it over without a word. 

“Just a minute—hah! I thought so.”  She slams the phone on the table.  “Hashtag SHIELD.”

“And that means…”

“All of Shield’s documents in one massive file. Every project. Any security level. Released by _Natasha_ freaking _Romanov._ “ Oh she’s got this.  “Garrett’s base has to be in here somewhere.”


End file.
